


There is always the return

by ManhattanMom



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - No one dies, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, fluff and angst with tiny hints of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManhattanMom/pseuds/ManhattanMom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thought he'd found his One, but after a year of being ignored, Bofur decides to finally confront Thorin.</p>
<p>This is easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is always the return

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous debt of thanks is due to Salvia_G for their help with this. If you do not know their work, run - don't walk - and check it out. I'm still flummoxed each time they agree to spend time they could be using to work on their own superlative fiction helping me with my silly stuff, but I'm very grateful.
> 
> The characters are not mine, so a debt of gratitude also goes out to JRR Tolkien.
> 
> Enjoy!

*

 

It took almost a year after the Battle of the Five Armies for Bofur to decide enough was enough.

Dwarves have never been known for their spontaneity.

 

*

 

"So, is that it, then?"

Thorin looked up from his desk to see an extremely flustered Bofur standing in the doorway of his private suite. His breath caught into his throat, and his first thought was - well, truthfully, his first thought was drowned out by the sound of his heart hammering joyfully in his ears.

His second thought was: _That hat. How can it be that after all this time he still wears that ridiculous hat?_

His third thought made him blush as if he were an elf maiden.

 

*

 

Bofur felt his resolve draining away as he gazed at Thorin, sitting there looking so damn magnificent, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

_(Well, perhaps a_ few _cares - he had definitely not left Ered Luin with so much silver shot through that glossy black mane of his...silver? No, more the color of mithril, or - )_

He sighed, suddenly wishing he'd taken the time to grab a quick pint before storming over to confront the king.

Something to take the edge off his nerves, which threatened to confound his efforts to get to the bottom of their thrice-cursed situation.

_Just look at him there,_ he thought to himself a bit grumpily. _How dare he look so handsome and dashing when Mahal knows all he's doing is paperwork??_

*

 

Thorin knew he needed to respond, to say something, _anything._ Bofur was waiting and he was clearly agitated.

...but it was so hard to think when he looked the other dwarf in the eyes, those beautiful green eyes with the tiny flecks of gold that lit up whenever he was -

_Stop. It._

_You knew this day would come,_ he reflected. _You've all but driven him to it with your absurd behavior._

_So...where is that legendary courage_ now, _you great coward?_

He cleared his throat and felt his heart clench as Bofur frowned at him. That expression looked so terribly out of place on the toymaker's face, and Thorin wondered to himself how it was possible to take the most merry dwarf he had ever known and turn him into the tense, brooding soul standing before him.

_Ah, I know!_ he thought wryly. _Simply pointedly ignore him for months on end because you lack the stones to face him_.

 

*

 

Bofur waited, much as he had been waiting the entire previous year, and yet Thorin said nothing. _Did_ nothing, except stare at him with the oddest expression on his face.

_Honestly,_ he thought angrily. _The absolute nerve. King or no, I deserve an explanation._

"A year, Thorin,” he snapped gruffly and was grimly satisfied to see the king almost recoil from the fierce indignation in his tone. “I've waited a year! For a signal, a sign of any kind...and nothing. Is that what you feel for me, then? Nothing? Because I am hard-pressed to assume much else!”

He folded his arms defensively across his chest as Thorin stood, his mouth opening to speak...

...before they were both startled by his private guard rushing in, hands on their swords and faces tight with anxiety.

 

*

 

“Sire,” said the head lieutenant ( _Sifur? Sefur?_ thought Thorin hurriedly. _Dwalin recommended him, said he was the only one who could best him at axe throwing back in Ered Luin how can I not remember his Valar-forsaken_ name _why am I thinking of this now??_ ) “Please pardon our interruption, but the ambassador to Dale and his guard have been ambushed by an Orc raiding party.”

“Ambassador to Dale” was another way of saying “Bilbo Baggins”.

Thorin felt his stomach drop, and he was startled to find himself glancing over at Bofur, seeking whatever small comfort he could find in light of such news.

The toymaker looked stunned and horrified, and when Thorin looked his way their eyes met briefly, and something undeniable leapt and crackled in the air between them.

Thorin strode forward, toward Bofur and the guard.

“Does Master Baggins live?” he demanded harshly.

The lieutenant ( _Sefur, it’s Sefur_ ) shrugged helplessly. “We do not know, your Majesty. He and Prince Kíli - “

At this Thorin froze.

“Kíli? _Kíli_ was with him?” he whispered.

_(Of_ course _Kíli was with him, it’s impossible to separate the two of them these days, oh in Durin’s name Kíli would die before he let Bilbo fall, please please please)_

Dimly, he heard Bofur gasp, and it felt as if it had come from his own throat.

“Yes, sire,” Sefur replied, clearly unnerved by the intensity of Thorin’s gaze. “Prince Kíli insisted on accompanying the ambassador and his - “

Thorin whirled around and snatched his battered traveling coat from the chair where it had been thrown days ago.

“And the Orcs?” he barked. “What of this raiding party?”

Sefur swallowed visibly. “None live, Majesty. Prince Kíli and the Ambassador’s guard were successful in dispatching the entire group...but two of the guard are dead, and…” he trailed off nervously.

“And Bilbo and Kíli are in danger of that as well, yes?”

The lieutenant nodded brusquely.

Just before he raced out the door Thorin paused briefly to look back at Bofur.

“I - “ he began.

Bofur shook his head.

“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Go, and make sure all is well. I...we…”

Thorin softened the tiniest bit.

“Yes,” he said, and then he was gone.

 

*

 

When next Bofur screwed up his courage to confront the king three more months had passed.

Bilbo and Kili had survived, although not unscathed. Bilbo was recovering from a broken ankle, cracked ribs and a stab wound in his left side that had very nearly killed him, while Kíli had lost part of his left ear and now sported a large scar from his left eye down to his jaw. He too had almost died from a nasty wound to his midsection and was still on the mend. He joked that he was now almost as ugly as Dwalin, and whenever he said that Bilbo would shush and scold him, and then gently and reverently kiss the scar on his face.

_It would all be so lovely and romantic if my own heart weren’t breaking,_ Bofur would think resignedly whenever he went to visit them.

That said, it was their obvious affection and warm regard for each other that spurred him to seek Thorin out a second time, so the toymaker admitted to himself he would have owed them a debt of gratitude...had things gone well.

 

*

 

“Is perhaps _now_ a good time, Majesty? One could grow old and die waiting for a word from you.”

Thorin’s heart began to pound at the sound of that voice...and then he turned and saw Bofur standing in the doorway, his hands in fists, looking even more put out and distressed than he had the last time.

_Oh, Durin’s beard, I’m in for it now,_ he thought gloomily.

At least the sight of Bofur wearing only a long, fitted vest over a tunic and snug ( _very snug!_ ) trousers brightened his mood considerably.

He rose from his seat behind his massive oaken desk (and hadn’t _that_ been a laugh Balin and Dwalin had had at his expense) and girded himself for what he was sure was going to be the dressing-down of the century.

_And I deserve every word and more,_ he reminded himself. _I have been an unmitigated ass._

*

 

Bofur stopped talking as Thorin rose, in part out of respect, and in part because the sight of Thorin standing before him wearing only trousers and a thin linen tunic open to reveal his throat and the top of his chest made his mouth go dry, and his heart beat faster than it had since the blasted spiders in Mirkwood.

He had always hated spiders...

...though he quite appreciated the sight of Thorin clothed in such a way.

(In a purely academic, aesthetic sort of way, of course.)

 

*

 

Thorin could not help but notice the effect he was having on Bofur. _Good,_ he thought, awash in relief, _at least I am not the only one._

He took a few steps closer, and rejoiced ( _rejoiced!_ ) to see Bofur flush.

 

*

_Will you look at him?_ thought Bofur angrily. _All this time without so much as a by-your-leave, and now that I am once_ again _taking it upon myself to start a dialogue, like a responsible dwarf , he thinks all he needs to do is give me that_ look, _that smouldering, longing, glorious - oh, Mahal, I am in so much trouble._

*

 

"Bofur."

The name all but fell out of his mouth, and simply saying it made Thorin’s heart squeeze deliciously.

 

*

 

Bofur tried so very hard not to moan at the sound of that voice...saying his name...that _voice,_ so deep and rich and _ohhh,_ the way it would rasp when Thorin was -

_Not._

_Now._

With what remained of his strength (and his _pride_ because, by the Seven Fathers, all he wanted was to rush forward and gather Thorin up and hold him so tightly neither of them would be able to breathe, and then lower them both to the floor and - )

_Stop._

He stood his ground, sighing and rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

_Such a shame I find nothing about him appealing, the right bastard,_ he thought crossly.

 

*

 

Watching Bofur practically vibrate when Thorin said his name made the king grow so hard so quickly he felt lightheaded.

Resisting the urge to grab the corner of his desk to support himself, he chose instead to focus on the way Bofur’s tongue was darting out to wet his lips, the way his breath had quickened, and the way his eyes -

_Wait._

_Just..._ wait.

Thorin exhaled unsteadily and after a brief moment of hesitation decided to curl his hand around the edge of the desk after all.

_I do hope resisting the urge to fuck him where he stands proves more successful than_ that _just did,_ he mused ruefully.

 

*

 

"Well, thank the Valar you still remember my name. I've had my doubts after all this time."

_There,_ Bofur thought triumphantly as Thorin’s eyes widened. _Think you can sweet-talk_ me _with your voice like warm honey and your blue eyes that are like to send me into an early grave when they look at me that way, and your hands - your strong, callused hands that can caress so gently and -_

Bofur fairly growled as he clenched his fists hard enough to leave crescent-shaped gouges in his palms.

_Oh, for the love of all that is great and good! Stop thinking of the way he would touch you when you -_

Stop.

Thinking.

_Ofallofthat._

_Say what you came here to say, and then_ leave.

_(Do not forget that last bit, that's the important bit.)_

*

_Oh, Durin save me,_ Thorin despaired when he heard Bofur growl. _Even in that absurd hat...just l_ ook _at him. Those eyes will be the death of me...and his lips! So soft...and so full. I remember when he -_

He shook his head once, hard, and then drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in a vain effort to clear his mind.

"Bofur," he started again, more hesitantly. "Of course I remember your name."

He instantly regretted his choice of words when Bofur's face first fell, and then seemed to close up right in front of him, as if someone had drawn the curtains over a window that was letting in far too much light.

When only a frightening blankness remained to meet his gaze, he grew desperate.

 

*

 

“Of course I remember your name.”

_Does he think I just fell off the mining cart, then?_ Bofur thought disbelievingly. _Because it sounds for all the world as though he has_ absolutely _forgotten my name._

(That Thorin had in fact said his name _before_ Bofur felt he needed to remind him of it was lost under a wave of righteous indignation.)

_Well, at least now I know,_ he thought wearily, his heart stuttering weakly in his chest. _After more than a year of pining, surely some clarity will prove to be helpful...even if right now I want only to curl up as tightly as I can and not move for the foreseeable future._

_At least now I know._

*

 

When the blankness melted into the most heart-wrenching expression Thorin thought he'd ever seen, he could hold himself back no longer. Lunging forward, he grasped Bofur by the shoulders with both hands and -

\- nearly moaned in frustration as Dori chose that very moment to poke his head into the office to say rather brightly, “Sire? Apologies for the interruption, but we’ve received word back from the Mirkwood.”

Belatedly noticing Bofur, the eldest ‘Ri’s eyes grew round with surprise which then smoothed to sympathy as he continued gently, “And they sent a rather large party to deliver the answer. They are waiting, Sire. By, um...by the front gates.”

He threw Bofur a final apologetic glance but did not leave.

Thorin sighed heavily.

“How many, Dori?” he asked.

Dori hesitated, and then said, “Well, Your Majesty, frankly - it’s more elves than I have ever seen in one place at any one time. With the possible exception of the Battle.”

Thorin cursed loudly, and Dori hummed in agreement.

“I’ll just run ahead and tell them you’ll be with them shortly, yes?” he asked.

Thorin cleared his throat.

“Cannot the Ambassador speak to them, Dori?” he almost pleaded. “This is exactly the reason I appointed him, after all.”

Dori regarded Bofur warmly for a moment before fixing Thorin with a look of reproach that made the older dwarf feel as if he were thirty years old again, squirming with his hand caught in a jar of honey.

_Why must everyone take Bofur’s side in this?_ he thought peevishly. _Do I warrant no solicitude or respect at all?_

_Perhaps nearly murdering your dear friend and falsely accusing allies of treachery makes it difficult to take your side in much of anything_ _,_ his mind whispered back, as it had every day since he awoke after the Battle.

His stomach began to sour, and his head to pound, and not for the first time he was filled with shame, so deep and profound he had to struggle to draw breath.

If Dori noticed, he acknowledged nothing.

“May I remind your Majesty that Master Baggins and Prince Kili are in Dale this afternoon,” he said sternly. “The Mirkwood delegation has arrived several days early, after all, and the Ambassador had matters to discuss with King Bard.” After another admonitory look, he added, “Matters Your Majesty requested he attend to personally.”

He then shrugged, and that gesture served to make it clear to Thorin that while Dori was clearly not unsympathetic to the current awkward situation, he was also not about to let the king shirk his duty regarding the Elves while he attended to it.

It was at this moment that he realized he was still grasping Bofur’s shoulders.

But before he could let go, Bofur was swiftly pulling himself away, visibly subdued and defeated. He murmured, “Forgive my intrusion, Sire,” and actually _bowed his head_ as he turned away to leave.

_No. No no no!_

Thorin reached out again, trying to snag Bofur’s arm, but the toymaker was too quick for him.

“Bofur, wait. Please,” Thorin said quietly.

Bofur turned to face him, his face carefully neutral but his eyes - oh, his eyes...Thorin could not help but reach up and rub at his own chest, trying to soothe the aching tug the despair in Bofur’s eyes was creating there.

"Please," he said again, even more softly. "We need to...or rather _I_ need - "

“Forgive me, Sire,” Bofur cut in abruptly - and Thorin winced to hear the sharp edge in the other's voice - “but I'm not overly concerned with your needs at the moment. Two of us worrying about nothing but you is at least one too many.”

 

*

 

The dark satisfaction Bofur felt at the expression on Thorin’s face, and the sound of Dori’s low whistle as he marched out of Thorin’s room would remain his little secret.

 

*

 

The next time it took only two weeks before Bofur burst in again.

_For the love of the Valar,_ thought Thorin, _I need better guards._

 

*

 

The entire fortnight preceding this, his final (absolutely _final!)_ attempt, Bofur had worked to steel himself: encouraging talks and discussions of strategy with Kíli and Bilbo, plenty of drinking with Nori, weeping with and embracing Bombur and Bifur - and now that he was here, for the third and last time (he had promised himself!) he found he could barely speak, barely breathe; the sight of Thorin (once again in his tunic and trousers) making his mouth go dry and his stomach flutter.

_I cannot,_ his mind stammered. _I must...but he...why...oh, look at him just_ look _at him, so beautiful..._

_Say something! Anything! Why else did you come here??_

_-_ Don’t _answer that -_

*

 

Thorin took one look at Bofur's face, flushed and determined, and knew. Beyond all doubt, beyond anything he had tried to convince himself of these long, lonely months - he knew.

(In all honesty he had known all those many months ago...but dwarves are not called "stubborn" for no reason.)

He drew breath to speak but was startled by Bofur’s curt, "No. No you don't."

 

*

_He thinks I have come here yet again only to hear_ him _speak,_ Bofur thought incredulously. _He is as vain and arrogant -_

_Wait - that’s perfect. Don't waste that just thinking it!_

"You are as vain and arrogant as...as an Elf at a midsummer festival," Bofur announced. "Nearly a year and a half I have waited for you, and not once in all this time have you given me any indication you remember me, or us, or have any notion why I might want to speak with you."

Barely pausing for breath, he pushed on, firmly ignoring Thorin's startled expression.

"If you think because of who I am and what I did to make ends meet before this quest of yours means I am due less respect, or have any less honor, than you Durin blue-bloods, well,” - and here he huffed indignantly - “You are entirely mistaken, King Under the Mountain. Oakenshield! More like Oaken-headed, for surely that is what is between your ears - thick, hard oak, incapable of remembering even my _name_ or discerning - “

It was only when Thorin stalked forward and grabbed him by the back of the neck to pull him into a rough, deep kiss that Bofur stopped talking.

 

*

 

_Ahh,_ thought Thorin. _Oh, sweet Maker, how I’ve missed this._

He reveled in the taste and feel of the toymaker’s lips and tongue, breaking the kiss only to trail softer, smaller ones along Bofur’s jawline and neck, and to murmur warmly in his ear, "I remember more than your name, my heart...although I _had_ forgotten how terribly aggravating you can be."

 

*

 

When their lips met, all the passion and longing Bofur had been feeling for so long rose up, and he felt his whole body lift and break open, like a butterfly freeing itself from a cocoon. His heart skipped a beat, and he was helpless against the desire to lean into the kiss and chase it hungrily as -

_Aggravating??_

He had the _audacity_ , after a year that began with nearly killing their burglar over a stupid rock, then almost dying on the battlefield - Bofur seriously thought he might never truly get over that - progressing then to a distance and emptiness such as he'd never known, one that lurched in his heart every time he caught a glimpse of Thorin or even heard his name - after months of silence that the king did not choose to end himself but had to have ended _for_ him, like the dwarfling he was - he had the absolute nerve to call _him_ aggravating??

Bofur pulled away even as Thorin leaned closer, and the sudden imbalance in their embrace caused them to topple over, Thorin on top of Bofur, in an awkward pile of limbs and hat.

There was silence, and then -

"Did you just call me your ‘heart’?”

 

*

 

Some time later...when deep, languid kisses on the floor turned into greedy, hungry kisses on the bed; when Thorin’s desire to taste every inch of Bofur’s skin and feel the weight of his cock on his tongue was realized and thrillingly reciprocated; when the aching void Bofur had carried in his heart for so very long was finally soothed by thrusting hard and fast into Thorin's heat and collapsing against the king's back after releasing what felt like an ocean of seed into him; after taking Thorin in hand and bringing him almost roughly to his completion, smugly proud of the way the king shouted his name over and over until his voice was ragged; when Thorin gently smoothed Bofur's glorious hair out of his face so that he might kiss his eyes and cheeks and nose and finally his mouth...

That was when they spoke again.

 

*

 

Bofur’s eyes were closed and his hand stroked up and down Thorin’s arm smoothly and tenderly. The casual intimacy of the gesture belied his nervousness as he asked, “So now what do you have to say? Because don't think that fucking me and letting me fuck you into next week is going to make me forget the torture you've put me through these past months. I may have a soft spot when it comes to you - “

At that Thorin laughed and pulled the blankets around both of them more tightly.

“And I may have thoroughly enjoyed said fucking - ”

“As did I,” said Thorin softly, into Bofur's chest. “As did I.”

Opening his eyes, Bofur gently turned Thorin's face up so that they could look at each other plainly.

“Then why? Why in the name of all the Valar have you avoided me? Don’t bother to deny it,” he said doggedly as Thorin drew breath to speak. “You have all but crouched behind the furniture to hide from me. You apologize to the Company, appoint Bilbo as Ambassador - “

“After he forgave me,” Thorin said quietly.

“I forgave you! I as much as said that! I would have said a great deal more had you given me opportunity! But instead I spend a more than a year catching only fleeting glimpses of you, having to hear second-hand how you fare from your nephews and Bilbo.” He swallowed hard, and his voice broke a bit as he continued. “Why would you let me think our…” - he hesitated, searching for the right word - “our _time_ together meant nothing to you?”

Feeling laid bare and almost scorched under Bofur’s piercing gaze, Thorin turned his face away and buried it in the other dwarf’s neck.

Bofur sighed and closed his eyes again, holding Thorin even more tightly.

“Why would you let me believe I had found my One,” he asked quietly, his voice edged with a harsh desperation, “and then turn me away? As if...as if I were of no importance?”

Thorin exhaled shakily, and Bofur tried hard to concentrate on how badly he wanted answers, and on how wounded and vulnerable Thorin seemed; and not at all on how warm and incredibly satisfying Thorin's breath felt against his skin, and how he longed with every fiber of his being to run his fingers through that mithril  _(yes, definitely mithril)_ streaked hair, and grab it and use it to pull Thorin's head up to -

Damn it all, but he was in love. Angry, yes, but so, so in love.

 

*

 

How to explain feelings of shame and unworthiness...and cowardice, if he were being totally honest with himself, with someone who was so utterly guileless? Bofur's innocence shone through him like the light of the brightest forge, and Thorin hated himself, as he had over and over again since conquering his madness. His anguish threatened to overwhelm him and he could feel himself begin to shrink away.

 

*

 

Bofur felt it too.

He gripped Thorin by the arm, the one the king had draped over his chest, and pinched him. Hard.

Thorin recoiled, more in shock than in pain, though there was a fair bit of pain, too. Bofur had been a miner, after all.

"Stop it. Whatever is going on in there -" he tapped Thorin's forehead with a thick finger. Again, hard. "Whatever is going on, please just stop. I want talking. No more running. I'm too old to chase you much farther."

 

*

 

Thorin nearly laughed again, the relief and joy at being held so closely by his One after craving it so desperately making him practically giddy.

_Where have I found the strength to resist him for so long?_ he thought, almost amused. _He is simply glorious - wise, loyal, brave…_

_Far too good for the likes of me._

Thorin stirred uneasily in Bofur’s embrace, feeling small and ugly.

_The craven, weak, mad King of Erebor, who once valued gold over all he used to hold dear._

_There is nothing I can ever do to change that,_ he realized with sudden clarity. _If I live to be as old as Thranduil, that will always be who I am,_ what _I am._

_My legacy._

His hands trembled, and he pressed them against Bofur’s chest to still them.

_One such as Bofur deserves far better than that._

"How could I look upon you, after all that I had done?” he whispered, still unable to meet Bofur's eyes. “I nearly murdered our friend, nearly started a war - for Mahal's sake, Bofur, I nearly killed us all, including my own nephews! I behaved disgracefully...and then did not even have the decency to die upon the battlefield. No, I survived, and each day I am reminded of what I have done, the mistakes I have made, and how unworthy I have proven to be, of you...and your love.

“You ask me why I have stayed away? I ask you what else could I have done?” He sighed deeply before continuing even more quietly, “Better to live not knowing than be told outright my One is ashamed of me.”

He chuckled, but it was bitter and without mirth. “And now you see what a terrible coward I am. I cannot bear to hear “no” so instead I chose to hear nothing.”

Bofur was silent, but his hand carded slowly through Thorin's hair, lifting it up and letting it fall through his fingers like dark, thick water. He said nothing, just repeated the gesture over and over - lifting the hair up to run through his fingers before beginning again.

Thorin closed his eyes, and immediately felt tears, hot and sharp, against his eyelids.

He sighed again, and brought his hand up to swipe absently at his eyes.

_Well,_ he thought, _at last I'm out with it._

*

 

Bofur thought he had never felt anything as fine and soft as Thorin's hair.

He wondered absently how many others could say that, and the fierce possessiveness that rose up at that thought surprised and thrilled him.

_Oh, to feel this way!_ he smiled to himself. _I would kill anyone who tried to harm him, who even spoke against him...me! The affable miner who joined the quest for Erebor because of a promise of free beer!_

_This must be what happens when you find the other half of your soul._

He brought the handful of hair he was caressing up to his face and breathed deeply, memorizing the scent of it - the thick, heady smell of pine and stone- before pressing it to his lips.

Everything Thorin had said soothed the deep pain he’d been carrying in his soul, festering like a wound. His most terrible fear, brought about by the silence since the Battle - that he had been a convenient distraction and nothing more, when he had felt so much, had known all the way to his core what he had found in Thorin - that fear had been assuaged and in its place was simply love, and a safe, comfortable warmth beyond measure.

His fingers began to work, twisting and turning the hair they were buried in, until a pattern began to emerge.

 

*

 

Thorin felt an unfamiliar lightness in his soul as he lay curled into Bofur’s chest, breathing in his scent of tobacco and strong ale and listening to his heart beat.

_To be finally unburdened,_ he marveled. _Too long have I let him believe the fault lay with him. Too long have I feared a step in any direction could only mean heartbreak and devastation._

_Well, now he knows._

_And now the decision rests with him._

The longer the silence wore on, the more Thorin busied his mind with memorizing every detail of their evening - every word, every expression...every touch.

If tonight needed to support him through a lifetime without Bofur, then by the Valar he would hold each precious moment as close to his heart as he was able.

Then he felt the hands tugging in his hair.

 

*

_Damn and blast, but I hope I've gotten this right,_ thought Bofur. _Honestly, I never thought I would use this one, much less on a king._

He smiled to himself.

_Not_ a _king._ My _king._

*

 

It felt for all the world like...but it couldn't be.

_Could it?_

Because that was definitely what it felt like...

“Bofur?” he asked hoarsely. “What are you doing?”

 

*

 

Bofur smiled.

“What do you think I'm doing?” he answered, amused. “ I'm putting my marriage braid in your hair.

“Or at least I think that's what I'm doing,” he amended, chewing his bottom lip in concentration. “I've never braided it on anyone before, so I only pray I'm doing it properly.”

 

*

 

_Marriage braid...?  But...can he truly -_

Thorin reached up and seized Bofur's hand.

Things were still for a moment, and then he looked up and their eyes met.

Uncertainty and a question were met with forgiveness and an answer.

Thorin settled back down, smiling, his head on Bofur's chest again.

“As long as it does not say I am married to Bifur,” he said with a grin.

 

_fin_


End file.
